If Mitchell's heart actually functioned, he may well have had a heart attack as he heard the key in the front door. Instead, all that happened was a loud -

"Shit!"

He quickly slammed the eject button on the television and out popped the disc, just in time for George to make his entrance. If it had been any other DVD of an… adult… nature, his housemate would have made a cynical, but ultimately unfazed, remark. This DVD, however, would have been cause for a much more dramatic reaction. And Mitchell could really do without one such reaction.

He slipped it back into its case and quickly began messing with the other DVDs lying around the bottom of the television in the hopes that he could disguise his panic.

"Hey." George raised his eyebrows at Mitchell's desperate movements. "What are you doing?"

"Uff. Need to give Carol back Casablanca. But I can't find – oh, there," he said, brandishing the film that had featured his one little and barely noticeable foray into movie stardom.

He popped that DVD casually on top of the other one and went over to sit in the nearby chair. Be chill, Mitchell. Relax. If he had learnt anything from the past 90-odd years, it was how to lie… he hoped.

"Anyway, I thought you were working late tonight?" He asked, keen to change the subject away from DVD related enquiries.

George collapsed onto the sofa opposite and sighed. "No, that's tomorrow night. Listen, do you want to go out for a pint? I've had one of those days and I really fancy a drink. It's your day off tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Mitchell shrugged, "Annie's out for a walk at the moment though. Want to ask her if she wants to join as well?"

"Already have; I bumped into her on the way back. She's bagsied the TV tonight. Apparently, they're showing Mr and Mrs Smith, which is what her and Owen watched on one of their first dates so it's of course imperative that she watches it." George attempted to refrain from sounding too sarcastic but to no avail. He was getting better at dealing with Annie's quirks, especially when it came to her ex-fiancé, but he still had a little bit to go.

Mitchell hesitated. "I don't know, don't you think we should stay with her then? She's seemed a bit more fragile than -" he began, but his friend cut him off with a look.

"Mitchell, please," he sounded exasperated, "She'll be fine. It's an action-comedy starring Brad Pitt, she'll probably have forgotten about Owen halfway through. Come on, we haven't been out just the two of us in a while. It'll be fun! Plus, it'll be my treat, I owe you one."

It was Mitchell's turn to sigh. George had been 'owing' him and Annie various things ever since the incidents with Tully a couple of weeks ago. It was understandable that he felt guilt over it all, but Mitchell didn't know how to let his best friend know that it really was okay now. If Mitchell owed people for everything that he felt guilt over, he'd be paying debts for an eternity, and George owed a hell of a lot less to a hell of a lot fewer people.

"Okay, fine, a drink would be nice. I suppose it's only around the corner."

George shook his head determinedly. "Nope. No, we're going to one in town. I'm not going to the pub where everyone knows everything about us, thanks to your merry little gatherings."

"Oh, come on, they don't know everything."

"You know what I mean. And besides if I hear just the name Vin Diesel being mentioned in my vicinity again…"

Mitchell threw up his hands. George was always so George!But he wouldn't deny the fact that going somewhere a little more anonymous and with a little less Vin Diesel might be a nice change for once.

"Alright, alright, you win this time! I'll be back down in a mo."

"Thank you," George said, smiling at the result.

Mitchell, despite his slight annoyance, couldn't help but return the gesture. He wanted and liked to see his friend happy, especially after the last few months. A trip to a random bar was worth that. And it would distract him from...

He swiftly grabbed the DVD from the table, concealing it against his top. He bounded up the stairs, and into his room and chucked it to the side. He'd deal with it later.

He grabbed his jacket and wallet and then, mission accomplished, he headed back downstairs again.

Mitchell pushed the glass of beer between his hands, trying to focus on anything but the people at varying levels of inebriation around him. His 'merry little gatherings' had been helping him get used to being around humans, but pubs and bars and other such drinking establishments were always just that little bit harder. Not even that long ago places like this had been his hunting ground. Not anymore. Now they were places to relax and chat with friends, like nice, normal, non-creatures of the night.

And he was doing okay. He was doing fine. His hunger was there, he could feel it, but he was controlling it. But God… Lauren's film.

Stop.

He downed the rest of his drink and tuned back into what George was saying.

"…oh come on, can that lead singer even sing? Oh, hang on a moment, is he drunk? Mitchell, I don't think these guys can even call themselves a band."

Ah yes. The band. George had been able to choose the one bar which was hosting a live music night, apparently. And at the current moment they were gracing the patrons with an off-key rendition of Time After Time.

Mitchell chuckled. "You were the one who wanted to come here, not me. And to be fair, this is pretty accurate representation of 80s bands. Part of the charm, some would argue."

"Well, 80s… charm should stay in the 80s," he grumbled.

"Hey, the 80s had some pretty damn good music! Sure, it wasn't all good, but Christ, it was better than a lot of shit we get now."

"If you say so, Grandpa."

"Tsk," Mitchell tutted, "Don't pretend I didn't hear you singing Under Pressure the other day in the shower."

He grinned at seeing his desired reaction: George's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open as he realised his little a cappella singsong had not gone unnoticed.

"It was on an advert and got stuck in my - I thought no one could hear me!" He exclaimed, his ears already red.

He laughed, amused at how easy his housemate was to tease. "You thought wrong. But Annie and I enjoyed it hugely. We had to check that Freddie Mercury's ghost hadn't come pay us a visit."

George huffed in response, "Oh shut up."

Mitchell quietened, but the smile didn't leave his face. Maybe he should feel bad about it, but George was hardly innocent either. After all, this part of being human was something he could do quite effortlessly, so why not enjoy it?

Looking down at his empty glass still between his hands, he felt the drink taking affect, and felt grateful for the existence of alcohol. It may never sate his thirst, but it was a damn good substitute for the alternative.

"I saw Queen live, you know, in the 80s," he reminisced softly.

George's eyes widened again but this time undeniably impressed. "You saw Queen? With Freddie Mercury?"

Mitchell's smile broadened. Sometimes, being immortal had its perks.

"Uhuh, and David Bowie. Live Aid. Wembley. 1985. Greatest concert ever."

"You went to Live Aid?" George couldn't hide the amazement in his voice.

"Of course, it was all that anyone talked about. I wasn't about to miss that. I was right near the front too."

George rolled his eyes at this boast. "Show off. How did you manage that? More of your 'moving and shaking'?" He asked and Mitchell could see, with great smugness, that he was jealous. Next time he'd think before calling him a grandpa.

"Nah, I was just very lucky. And was with a friend who was super into the whole charity thing, so we queued for bloody hours. I think she just had a crush on Midge Ure."

George raised his eyebrows, looking thoughtful.

"What?" Mitchell demanded.

He shrugged. "Just, you, a vampire, going to a charity concert to raise money to stop people from dying. It's a bit ironic, isn't it?"

The vampire scoffed, "Oh wow, thanks mate, I'm glad that it's so hard to imagine I might have cared about something otherthan blood. I'm not a monster."

He looked away, offended but knowing he had no right to be. He decided not to admit that he ended up killing his 'friend' that same night. At least she'd had a good final day, and he recalled he'd given most of the money he found in her flat to the fundraiser. A pathetic attempt at reparation or something.

Okay, maybe George was right to be somewhat sceptical.

He glanced back, surprised that some smart-arse comment hadn't followed, but instead found the man gawking at something behind Mitchell.

He turned and saw a guy, dressed head to toe like he'd just time travelled straight from the 1980s himself. Long black vintage wool coat, blue jumper, and to top it all off, a little curly quiff and a cigarette perched behind his ear. He couldn't be any older than 21, and Mitchell smiled thinking of how young people always seemed to hold a nostalgia for a completely different era they never experienced and only thought they understood.

"Look, that's not anywhere near the worstof the decades fashion," he said. However, no response from George made him realise that that wasn't where his friend was looking. He followed his line of vision and found –

Ah, of course!

Incredulous, Mitchell faced back towards George, now looking everywhere but at Nina, who was hanging around the bar at the other side of the room with a few friends.

"George, be honest with me now, did you know she was going to be here?" He questioned, and in response George looked uncomfortable for just a moment too long, shifting in his seat awkwardly. That gave Mitchell all the confirmation he needed.

"Oh, I should have guessed something was up when you chose this place! Tell me, did you actually want to go for a pint with me, or was it just an excuse for you to gawp at someone whose very presence makes me wonder if you've ever actually seen a woman before?"

This snapped George back.

"No!" He squealed in his typical manner. "No, I really did want to go out for a drink! It just happens that I may have overheard her friend saying they were all coming here for a birthday…"

Mitchell sighed, but there was no point getting angry. He could hardly blame him; he'd tried his fair share of slightly questionable tactics over the years to gain the attention of women. He leant slightly closer to his friend over the table so they wouldn't be overheard, that George might be saved at least some embarrassment.

"So, what then, you're just gonna sit there ogling her? Or are you actually going to, you know, talk to her? You said you wanted help to talk to women, right? Then consider this me doing my duty as your friend."

George groaned but knew that Mitchell wasn't about to let this go. "Okay," he relented. "I'll go say hi."

With a look of resignation on his face, he stood up. Paused for a moment. And then immediately sat back down again.

He took a twitchy gulp of lager from his glass. "I don't know, Mitchell. I haven't exactly had the best of luck with her. I'm surprised she hasn't put up a restraining order against me yet."

"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Mitchell didn't want to sound too frustrated, but it wasn't exactly easy. "Jesus Christ, George, you can't just stalk her, then you really will get arrested. Stop being a wimp and gofor it."

George grimaced and looked towards Nina again. His eyes widened like saucers.

"Oh shit, shit, shit, she's coming over. Oh, bloody hell, why is she coming over! What do I do?"

Mitchell took a glance behind and saw that George's crush was indeed walking directly towards them. He grinned. Sometimes things worked out perfectly.

"Excellent. Well, I'm going for a smoke. I won't be long."

"Mitchell!" George yelped, "You can't just leave me!"

Mitchell laid a hand on his panicking friends' shoulder reassuringly.

"Hey, hey, hey, it'll be fine. Stay calm, breathe, smile, and just be yourself. Or, uh, don't… you know…" He gestured vaguely towards George, who for a moment looked like he was about to object to the implied remark, but any such thoughts quickly diminished in his mind as Nina approached the table.

Mitchell got to the doors of the bar just in time to see George stuttering a hello. Now he thought about it, Nina too seemed a little uncharacteristically awkward. Maybe they were a good fit, he thought, with a slight smile.

Once outside, he quickly found himself a quieter space away from the other smokers congregated near the entrance and lit a cigarette with the swiftness of someone who had had 100 years of practice. He let out a long breath as he felt at least a little of the tension inside him dissipate. Sure, alcohol worked pretty damn well at helping him deal with his cravings, but sometimes you just needed the little extra that nicotine provided. Another perk of being dead: he didn't need worry about any negative side effects other than perhaps a bit of an addiction, and from where he stood it could well be argued that drinking and smoking hardly counted as one.

Suddenly, his thoughts on the positives of smoking were interrupted by a voice beside him.

"Live Aid was cool and all, sure, but they missed out all the real greats," stated the voice in a soft but distinctive northern accent.

Mitchell turned his head and saw that the young man he had noticed earlier was just a metre or so away, similarly with cigarette in hand. He was facing away from Mitchell, barely acknowledging his presence, and yet he definitely was addressing him.

Up close, his resemblance to the youth of the 80s was even more uncanny.

"Now, York Rock Festival, 1984," the man continued, "Bunnymen, Spear of Destiny, Chameleons, Sisters… you know, that were a festival. Dead awful weather, and Ian McCulloch got punched by a bouncer. Fantastic."

He smiled to himself at the memory, and Mitchell finally realised what he should have realised as soon as he had laid eyes on him. God. Of course. Now it was obvious.

"You're a ghost!" Mitchell blurted, perhaps a little too excitedly. He gave a quick check around and relaxed once he was sure that they wouldn't easily be overheard.

The man finally looked over in his direction and puffed out some smoke so nonchalantly, that Mitchell wondered for a moment if he'd actually heard him. He looked bored as hell, but in that way that young people often do – when you're only attempting to look as if everything is excruciatingly tedious. Though, Mitchell supposed it could be true in this case; if you're basically an unchanging immortal being, becoming world-weary is not an unbelievable concept. He'd known many vampires who had succumbed to such a fate.

He was just about to accept that he was going to have to repeat himself, when the man finally spoke.

"Yeah, maybe I am. Do you want a prize?"

Mitchell quietly chuckled at the sarcastic response that so perfectly matched with what he had been expecting. The ghost stared, unamused, but clearly somewhat taken aback by what was likely an unusual reaction.

"No, no prize. It's just, I've not many ghosts before, especially not…" – ones I haven't been the cause of making into ghosts, his thoughts finished for him. Herrick had taught him it was a good idea to get away from the body and place of murder quickly enough that they wouldn't have to deal with any unfortunate spectral guests. Most of the time they hadn't needed to worry, but occasionally… Even then though, the recently deceased were often too confused about what had happened to them to start being a nuisance. Annie had been the first Mitchell had encountered in a while whose death he could quite categorically say he hadn't had anything to do with.

And now this guy. Well, he was fairly sure at least.

Mitchell realised something. "Hang on," he began, pointing his cigarette at the man. "You were listening in to the conversation, weren't you? So you know…"

"What you are?" He finished. "Yeah, course. Though I realised you were a vampire as soon as I saw you. And I know your mate's a werewolf as well." He nodded towards George through the window, who Mitchell could see was still, quite miraculously, in the middle of a conversation with Nina.

"How did you know?"

He took another slow drag from his cigarette and Mitchell wondered about how that worked, for someone whose body was… well… not a body. He'd ask Annie but he reckoned that would be considered rude.

"I've been dead for over 20 years; you learn what's what. You might not have met many ghosts, but I've seen more vampires than I'd like. 'Steer clear of the sun, Pancake, sandpaper skin, they have no reflections, Drink blood…'"

Mitchell may have been more into the decade's films than the music, but he recognised those lyrics anywhere. Seth had incessantly played it when it came out, thinking he was being witty. Mitchell had just added it to the long list of reasons why he thought Seth was a pain in the backside. Please God, don't let this ghost be another Seth.

He narrowed his eyes slightly at Mitchell.

"I've not seen many werewolves though, and definitely not hanging with one of you lot at a bar. Is he actually your mate, or have you just, you know, kidnapped him? Stockholm syndrome and that."

"What? No, of course not!" Mitchell almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the question, "We're housemates. Friends, believe it or not. We're not all bigots, alright. I don't care he's a werewolf. If someone has a problem with it, they can piss off."

The ghost raised his eyebrows slightly. "Alright then, sorry, just wanted to be sure. I thought so, anyway, why I came to chat to you."

Mitchell nodded, and took another puff on his cigarette, willing his body to relax again. He held out his hand.

"I'm Mitchell."

The man looked down at it for a moment and then shook it.

"Gilbert."

"Alright, Gilbert, nice to meet you," he said cheerfully, grinning. Unsurprisingly, neither motion nor comment were returned but a small nod was given instead, which Mitchell interpreted as a frankly enthusiastic response. Yes, Gilbert might not be the most immediately endearing acquaintance that he had met over the years, but he wasn't about to abandon a potential new friendship. There was more to this guy, he was sure, and not in a 'will ruin you and your friends' lives' kind of way, either.

Mitchell gestured over to the others in the smoking area. "Can they see you?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes in response. "On the account of my being a ghost, no, strangely they can't," he answered, making no attempt to disguise the sardonic tone.

"Right, right. But, you see, I actually live with a ghost, and she can, well, she used to be able to be seen… as a ghost, that is. Obviously, when she was alive, she could be seen. But now…"

Gilbert waved his hand at Mitchell to stop. "A vampire, a werewolf and a ghost… you telling me you're housemates?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, it sounds like a sitcom, don't it."

He considered this for a moment and shrugged, which Mitchell took as permission to continue.

"Anyway, she's just trying to work it all out at the moment. If you understand this ghost stuff, maybe you can help her."

"What makes you think it all requires understanding?" Gilbert asked, twirling the cigarette around his fingers absentmindedly. "The way I see it, seeking to make sense of something that never really makes sense is pointless in the grand scheme of things. It distracts you, you know, from appreciating the beauty of the mystery and all that." He paused, looking distant for a moment before returning his attention to Mitchell.

"But I have learnt a thing or two that maybe I'd be willing to share. Does she like 80s music?"

Mitchell blinked at Gilbert's quick change of topic, having got a little lost in trying to follow his previous words, though he would like to have blamed that on the alcohol.

"Uh, Annie?" He remembered her threatening to chuck out his Billy Idol record, and his Top Gun Official Motion Picture soundtrack record, and his… "No, I don't think she's a fan," he answered somewhat hesitantly.

Gilbert's expression was a clear mixture of confusion and disappointment.

"But," Mitchell added, "she was born in 1984… '85… around then – so she was at least around in the 80s! Better than nothing."

"1985, eh? That was the year I died."

Mitchell never quite knew how to react when hearing such information. So, for lack of an adequate alternative, he went for the first thing that came to mind.

"How did you die, if you don't mind my asking?" He inquired as sensitively as he could manage. From one dead person to another, surely it couldn't be considered too offensive.

Gilbert sniffed, unimpressed. "Ah, here we go, the most banal question of all. What about… How did you die?"

This redirection stupefied the vampire.

"Not been asked that before?" Gilbert observed.

Mitchell gave a short, soft laugh in spite of himself. Indeed, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been asked that particular question, probably because most people just cared about what happened after he had been recruited. He himself hadn't even given it much thought. After over 90 years, it seemed almost trivial, and yet it was arguably the most important thing that had ever happened to him. The only person who ever brought the situation up was Herrick, or occasionally Seth in some futile attempt at mocking Mitchell because apparently being there at his recruitment meant something.

He looked down, pulling at the zip of his jacket. "Eh, I was a soldier in the war, it's nothing int-"

"Interesting?" Gilbert interrupted, pointedly. Mitchell shrugged and smiled in acknowledgement.

The ghost cleared his throat. "May 16th, 1985. I were on my way to see Tears For Fears at Manchester Apollo as part of their Big Chair world tour. They were at the height of their fame so big deal, you know. So, I were walking there, listening to the album to prepare, right, miming the piano part of 'Head Over Heels'," he followed this with a short demonstration by moving his fingers to the song's rhythm. "And then bam!" He suddenly struck his hands together, the brusque movement taking Mitchell by surprise.

"Jesus."

"A car hit me, just like that, and I went quite literally 'head over heels'," Gilbert continued. "And now I'm in a stuffy bar in Bristol two decades later, listening to bad cover bands, and talking about being dead to a vampire."

Mitchell considered this for a moment.

"Two decades? You've never tried to find out what's keeping you here?"

"Eh, I reckon it was probably seeing that concert but by the time I'd realised what had happened… and well… Have you seen Donnie Darko?"

"Yep," Mitchell nodded. He and George had watched it a few months back and he'd enjoyed it well enough but had to admit he stopped following what the hell was going on about a quarter of the way through. George had tried to explain it to him for a good half an hour afterwards to no avail, and they'd both decided that it probably wasn't the best choice to introduce it to Annie.

"Right well, it's a perfect reflection on the complexity of morality, free will and fate. They use Head Over Heels and Mad World, so I can't watch it without getting flashbacks. But it helped me understand. Destruction is creation. You see, my life was destroyed, and in its place I get opportunity to create my own new existence, however I want. I imagine it's similar for you guys too, right?"

Mitchell decided not to admit that for vampires, their new existences were mostly formed out of a fair bit of mayhem and murder. From the look on Gilbert's face though, it was apparent he knew exactly what Mitchell was thinking.

He thankfully moved on. "Well, anyway, at the moment I'm going wherever the music takes me, having a dance, appreciating what I have now. And maybe occasionally stopping someone from playing terrible top 40 music."

Mitchell laughed, partly at the threat towards DJs, and partly at the idea of Gilbert dancing. He stubbed out his now finished cigarette.

"Well, I can't say I blame you. Some of the artists, nowadays? They wouldn't know real music if it hit them in the face. Sometimes, the worst part of immortality is hearing every song you love inevitably massacred by some kids who've hardly passed puberty. Creation my arse."

Gilbert nodded approvingly. "Only sick music makes money today."

He looked back at Mitchell, with an expression that, to his surprise, could be described as somewhat amicable.

"It's rare to meet a vampire who isn't a dick and has good taste, even if their friends don't."

Mitchell beamed, happy that he'd made an arguably good impression on someone he reckoned wasn't easy to do so. "Aw, cheers mate. I try."

Then he remembered: Friends. George. He quickly looked through the window and saw Nina back by the bar and George nowhere to be seen. Shit. Had it gone so badly that he'd made a dash for it?

He brushed his hand through his hair, distracted by what could have happened. "Ah, I'm going to have to go, man. You gonna be in Bristol long?"

Gilbert got another cigarette out and slid it behind his ear. "A bit longer, yeah. There's an 80s night on at a club next Sunday. Then New Model Army have a gig in Swansea the week after, so I'll be gone for that unless something comes up."

Mitchell nodded. "Alright, well, good to meet you Gilbert, I'll see you around!"

Gilbert raised a hand in farewell as Mitchell headed back inside and returned to their table, relieved that no one else had bagsied it in their absence. Perhaps he'd introduce Annie to Gilbert, but from just over five minutes he wasn't entirely sure that would be the best idea, even despite them both having a significant commonality.

He sat down just as the band decided to gift the attendees with their version of Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.

"Mitchell! You said you weren't going to be long!" The unmistakable strained tones of George's voice came from a couple of meters away and Mitchell looked up to see him hurrying up to the table.

Mitchell scoffed. "Long! I was barely gone ten minutes. Where did you go?"

"I had to pee," George mumbled as he took his seat opposite. "And then I just chose to wait over there until… until you came back."

"Oh, it went that well with Nina then, huh?"

George glared at him. "Actually, it didn't go too badly. It was mostly just a lot of apologising and small talk but I only rambled once so I consider that a success."

"Wow, get you, Romeo," he teased good-naturedly, which resulted in an eye roll from his friend.

"Ha ha ha. Anyway, who was that guy you were talking to?"

Mitchell looked over to the window, but Gilbert apparently had decided that he'd listened to one bad cover too many and had vanished.

"Just a guy who recognises when someone has taste, I'll tell you later. Now," he turned the focus back to the more important matter, "did you ask her out?"

"What do you think? I've tried that before and it went less than perfect."

"Yeah, but that was when you were all Tully-George." Mitchell sighed with frustration at his friend's stubborness. "Come on, you like her, she obviously doesn't hate your guts, the worst thing she'll say is no. Again."

George took a glance around and leant further over the table. "And if she says yes?" he asked, clearly troubled. "The last woman I liked… she was killed, Mitchell. If staying away keeps Nina safe, then that's what I should do."

"That wasn't your fault!" Mitchell argued. "That was -"

He stopped before he brought up what they both knew.

"Alright, okay," he smiled encouragingly at George, "Do you want another drink?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice. Surprise me. But not a cocktail; I don't think I've forgiven you for last time."

Mitchell raised his hands up in feigned innocence and moved away to the bar. Nina was still there, but he respected George's wishes enough to stay out of it, at least for now. Much more of George's yearning, though, and maybe he'd give his friend a little help.

He ordered two whiskeys and turned back to face the rest of the room while the bartender prepared the drinks.

Immediately he froze. A woman had entered the bar and was now leaning on a pillar near the entrance. Lauren. He blinked. No, not Lauren, but she looked remarkably like her. Enough so that he struggled to convince his mind that it was someone else.

Fucking hell, her and the damn DVD really was getting to him, weren't they? He hadn't seen her since she'd come to the house those few weeks before, and it worried him the way he'd felt when he thought it had been her. Or perhaps even more worrying, the feeling that remained pulling at every inch of him even when he knew it wasn't her.

He scrunched his eyes up and willed the thoughts out of him. Breathe in. You got this John. He had been doing so well. He was doing so well. Breathe out.

Suddenly a loud bang sounded from behind him, and his eyes flew open. The band had stopped playing and were now staring at their amp, confused and distressed at how their equipment had unexpectedly decided that enough was enough. A Gilbert shaped shadow caught his eye as it moved away from the kit. Mitchell stifled a laugh as he admired how seriously his new ghostly acquaintance took his vows against bad music.

It was just the right distraction he needed.

He collected the drinks and made his way back, trying not to look directly at the woman who he couldn't help but notice smiled as he brushed past her. Her fragrance caught in the back of his throat, and he swallowed and moved on.

He reached the table still breathing normally and only the slightest shake in his hands as he placed the drinks on the table. He hoped that there was no way George could tell that he'd had his brief moment of weakness, but by the look on his friend's face, the only thing he was thinking was relief at the recognisable liquid in front of him.

Mitchell sidled into his seat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman embrace her date. He relaxed.

Yeah, he thought, a drink sure would be nice.